


Testing his mettle

by goldleaf1066



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Feels, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Pillow Talk, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:29:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldleaf1066/pseuds/goldleaf1066
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dawn sheds light on Faramir's insecurities; Aragorn can only be frank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Testing his mettle

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little schmaltzy something I've had lying around for a while.

He stretches out on the bed and his feet catch the end of the sheet, pulling downwards, exposing belly and hipbones and the topmost whorls of his pubic hair. He grits his teeth. He curls up onto his side, a hand reaching blindly down to find the covers again. It was a good sleep. A good long sleep, and he isn’t ready to end it just yet. 

He’s aware he’s not in his own bed; he remembers the night before in flashes, and smiles into the pillow and into the hair of the person beside him. _It’s not right, it’s not right_ , so many voices, both real and imagined, chorus constantly. 

But it feels right. 

Faramir suffers a draught snaking along his thigh, exposed, and he lifts his head finally, blearily seeking through slitted eyes the edge of the coverlet and pulling it up finally over his midsection. Last night he was complimented on the narrowness of his waist but a shade of self-consciousness haunts him; he cannot claim chilliness now as the only reason for shielding his body even in such an intimate milieu, and he had turned away quickly as if to deflect the admiration with the angle of an elbow or hip. His head fits back into the hollow it has created in the pillow. The breath that escapes his nose dances across a shoulder, sweeps over the delicate, dark hairs that scatter themselves upon the nape of a neck. Hair is something Faramir likes; it’s erotic to him, alluring, male.

Aragorn says something in his sleep that is unintelligible. This isn’t the first time they have shared this bed but the opportunities are so few and far between that to Faramir each occasion feels like the first anyway. He gets nervous, finds that wine cripples him more readily, that his stomach will tolerate no food and his thoughts and words become muddled when he realises, when he knows, when it is confirmed with a look or a touch that tonight, _tonight_ , they will have freedom, relatively speaking, to act upon their desires.

Faramir thinks Aragorn is very handsome but he’s almost afraid to say it to him, he feels silly for some reason; surely Aragorn must already know this, objectively at least. No-one can be completely blind to one’s looks and though Faramir is not vain, he recognises, perhaps, that he himself is possibly even a little comely also. Surely, he tells himself, a king would not sleep with someone he found unattractive. And then he chides himself for this thought, annoyed at how he has come to validate himself by counting how often they lie together. He opens his eyes fully to Aragorn’s broad upper back. He can hear him breathing softly, can imagine the sharp edge of his jaw, the coolness of his gaze and the sadness it keeps trapped within. 

He slides forward, molding his body to the king’s, knees behind knees, groin against backside, belly and chest aligning against him. His hand skates over the dip of a waist, upwards so that fingertips can nestle in the scoop of a collarbone. Aragorn murmurs and moves back against him. He is still asleep.

 

He had wondered when Faramir would let go of his inhibitions; not quite yet, but he is getting there. Aragorn smiles because he knows Faramir thinks he is sleeping and therefore has found the courage to embrace him without invitation, but the king isn’t about to turn over and surprise him. He only revels in the heat of Faramir’s torso against his back, and gives him a ‘ _mmh_ ’ to let him know that though he ostensibly slumbers he welcomes this contact, even more so a flame burns within him at the knowledge that Faramir does this despite thinking Aragorn cannot know of it. That Faramir cares for him, truly, and finds his own happiness in being near to him.

It won’t do to rush things, no matter how much Aragorn yearns for Faramir to soften, to rid himself of nerves and insecurities and all of these things that have no meaning, to realise and recognise that yes, even though Aragorn doesn't care for titles, yes, Faramir, you _are_ good enough for a king.

Too good. Sometimes Aragorn thinks that the crown ought to sit atop autumnal auburn waves, but he has also often mused that were he to say that to Faramir his bedmate might never quite get over the horror of such a notion. 

Bedmate? Lover? 

Beloved?

Aragorn cares not for titles but this one is stubborn.

It’s hard not to wish things were different. It’s hard to see the disappointment in Faramir’s eyes when he must shake his head briefly to a questioning glance; the challenge of conveying _not tonight_ and _I’m sorry_ in one fleeting gesture.

Harder still is the decision whether or not to attempt adding _but I’m falling, nevertheless_ to that list.

He fancies he can feel Faramir’s heartbeat against his shoulder-blade, though it’s probably impossible. A cool nose-tip invades his hair and presses against the back of his neck, followed shortly by a kiss, tantalisingly shy. This is Faramir’s moment, he is testing his own nerve and the boundaries of his feelings and Aragorn will not spoil it by reacting. His heart burns for him. It’s not just the sex, which is quite lovely, but everything else too. 

He had expected Faramir to be one of two things in bed; anonymous, perhaps rough, needing the pleasure but avoiding tenderness, or timid, un-initiating, following the king’s lead in all things, passive. Instead, he had been delightful, somehow the reality of being in the midst of the act bringing forth a pale ghost of confidence; he had looked Aragorn in the eye as they made love, laughed with him, pushed him down onto the bed and kissed him all over. He had flirted, he had smiled, he had called out a name. And just to behold him with hair tousled madly, excited, skin hot to the touch, pupils dilated and breath short and rapid, Aragorn had never known him more arresting.

Faramir seems to be dozing. His hand has stilled, his kisses absent. Aragorn blinks. Time to wake up.

 

Something is happening. That is all Faramir knows, his subconscious mind alerting him to no more than that for the moment. Something, somewhere, distant. It’s a sort of pleasant something, though, so no need to surface.

He is dreaming. His eyes rove beneath their lids and his fingers contract into open fists reflexively.

Someone is touching him. Somewhere. Distant.

He is on his back, though he doesn’t remember moving. Nor does he remember falling asleep, but one never does. He wakens a little more as someone, somewhere, kisses his navel. A hand lies on his belly beside it.

“Don’t–” The word leaves his mouth almost before the thought fully forms in his mind and suddenly he is alone as all contact is withdrawn. Aragorn is lying beside him, almost diagonally now in order for his face to meet Faramir’s middle but he has propped himself up on his elbows and looks at him with concern. The covers lie like a rumpled mountain range over Faramir’s pelvis. Faramir doesn’t know what to do so he reaches out and touches the king’s cheek. “Sorry,” he mumbles. There is a prayer that Aragorn will understand all he means by that word floating somewhere between them.

To his relief, Aragorn turns his head and nips at his palm impishly, biting his thumb-knuckle. His eye slides across to meet Faramir’s again peripherally, and Faramir smiles and then pulls his hand away when more forceful teeth-marks appear on his finger.

“That hurt.”

“Really?” Aragorn’s faint brows arch.

“No, not really.”

Aragorn uses Faramir as a handhold, clambering along him until his head rests on the same pillow. “Do you want to know what really hurts?”

He has never seen the king in a mood so playful, and Faramir is torn between finding it something to worry over and being charmed completely. “I don’t know, do I?”

“I’ll tell you,” says Aragorn. “It’s when you don’t seem to realise that I want you too.” It’s blunt, and Faramir processes it for a very long time. He can’t think of anything intelligent to say.

“What?”

“You see,” Aragorn begins, as if recounting some old moral at the end of a forgotten childhood tale, “Something peculiar happens when we lie together. You are delight itself; you burn, you touch me, you kiss me, you have me to yourself and I think you like that immensely.” He pauses, and Faramir’s blush is answer enough to that. “You are no less delightful at all other times, but you’re reserved, as if I’ll make a fool of you for wanting to touch me.”

Faramir just stares at him because everything he is saying is true. “I’m sorry,” is all he can muster, and it comes out quietly and rather pathetically and he feels a furious self-loathing for an instant but then Aragorn cups his cheek in his palm and smiles at him.

“I absolutely want your touch Faramir. Don’t ever think that I do not.”

Faramir trails off. “I just don’t like initiating…”

“I know, but I can’t do all the work, can I?” Aragorn kisses him on the bridge of his nose and Faramir swallows. “Don’t you imagine that I want to feel wanted too?”

“Of course!”

“Then you’d better realise that your fear of me is unfounded. I love you.”

It slips out so normally that Faramir almost misses it. He thinks about how little time they are able to spend like this, alone. He thinks about all the nights he lies in his own bed, a wholly different breed of solitude, wondering whether the growing spark of fondness in his own breast smoulders within Aragorn’s also. He thinks it's surely insanity to feel such joy in their union and such quiet despair when they are apart when they are divided more often than not. He thinks perhaps madness runs in his blood.

He wasn’t sure before, he wasn’t sure if what he felt was what Aragorn has just professed, whether it really felt like that. He has never loved anyone before, not in this way. Nor, he thinks, has he ever been so loved. And nor, an earlier version of himself might have thought, did he merit such love. It just wasn’t meant for him.

Faramir is changing. Slowly, carefully. He is opening up to the notion that he might deserve a good thing to happen. 

And Aragorn is good.

 

Oh dear. But it’s said now, and it’s not as if Aragorn didn’t mean it, though, he admits to himself as Faramir gapes at him, he only that moment finally construed love out of the miasma of magnetism, affection, lust and friendship that has been swirling within him for months now, an ever-spinning galaxy, all-encompassing and un-chartable.

Yes, he had _thought_ of falling in love. But the journey and the destination are two separates, related but ever disparate. He was _falling_ in love with Faramir, and here he is _in_ love with him, here and now and Faramir still hasn’t said anything. Suddenly, Aragorn panics. He’s ruined it, undone all the good work they’ve been doing together. He’s scared Faramir off, unnerved him with his keenness and the implied promises his words have pledged.

“You know,” Faramir begins softly, eyes downcast. “I don’t remember my mother, and I don’t think Boromir would’ve really found issue with it, but if my father had known that one of his sons was…especially the son that he already thought–…” He looks up, as ever, apologetic. “It’s hard to shake off old ghosts.” He sighs. “I only ever tried to please him.”

“And what about pleasing yourself?” Faramir looks at him as if the concept was one of which he could never have possibly conceived in any number of lifetimes. Aragorn pulls him closer, arms around his shoulders, face full of his soft hair. “I think you have been too hard on yourself for a very long time, my gentle heart.”

 

Faramir nods, feeling selfish for the admission but also suddenly defiant. Why should he not take what is offered? Why should the prize be forever out of his reach? Why should Faramir be so wildly unsatisfied with his lot in life, cursed to spend his days in uncomplaining obedience, dutiful and yet miserable? He steadies his breathing, and listens for Aragorn’s heartbeat against his ear. Everything is difficult. The king doesn’t speak for a long while, and then–

“You don’t like being touched there, do you?”

Faramir nods against his chest, knowing what he means without needing elaboration. Aragorn’s hand creeps beneath the covers.

“Because of this?”

He knows he should feel gladness at how well Aragorn knows his body that by touch alone he can find the place, but Faramir does not. He feels only cold lead in his innards as long fingers brush over the burn on his belly, the angry scar that smiles back at him from every full-length mirror, the reminder of the insanity of love that he tries not to draw attention, his own or otherwise, to, at all costs. He has been told it will fade in time, maybe even tighten up if he regains what fitness he lost during his convalescence, and he has been diligent in that regard. 

But, still. Here he lies, free at last from his father’s gaze except now even in death Denethor’s mark is upon him forever.

He tries not to flinch away. Aragorn’s palm flattens against him, covering it.

“If you don’t confront them, those ghosts will continue to haunt you.” And Faramir wants to pull away and shout and cry out and weep and tell him that it’s impossible to face them by himself and he has tried, but Aragorn holds him steadily and his voice is low. “You’re not alone, Faramir. You have me.”

And then Faramir thinks he may well weep.

And then he doesn’t. The tears won’t come, whether by some new undiscovered brokenness or because he is strengthened against his faults by the love of a king, they will not come. Courage arrives in their place, bountiful.

“I love you,” he says and he knows he means it so. Aragorn’s smile of happy surprise melts into a kiss that they make deep and longing. Faramir reaches up and touches the king’s hair, and then allows himself to be pulled onto him so they are stomach to stomach with legs in a knot. “I love you,” he says again, when they look at each other. Aragorn’s hands lie clasped in the small of Faramir’s back. “I do love you.” They disappear into another kiss, even slower than before, and shudderingly tender. The king has let his whiskers grow a little and Faramir likes the way they feel against his lips and cheek; he wonders, does Aragorn like the scrape of stubble against his skin? He certainly does not _dis_ like it much, pushing his tongue further into Faramir’s mouth, eyes shut tight. Faramir feels his cock stir; he blushes, for they have never beheld each other so eager in daylight, and the notion sends a thrill of tantalising anxiety through his body. Aragorn will see him, he frets, but he will get to see Aragorn.

 

He knows Faramir is insecure, and about more than the scar on his belly but as far as drawing notice to his fears Aragorn will go no further than that sickle-sliver of flame-touched flesh that his palm briefly felt burning beneath it. Perhaps it was wrong to call attention to it but he wanted Faramir to know it does not repel him. They always make love in the evening, with no candles or in the shadows of deepest night and so he has come to know Faramir’s body by touch and taste and smell; rarely has he ever seen his lover fully unclothed in good lighting. He wonders, other than the mark, what Faramir can be so unsure of; he has felt with his own hands how toned he is, how the stay in the healers' houses after his business with the war and all that came with it left him a little slenderer, or so Aragorn imagines, and how rather than becoming gaunt he is lithe. He’d complimented Faramir the evening before, as he lay beneath him, running his hands over his waist, hoping to encourage a little confidence into his bearing in such things, but it was a difficult seed to plant. 

As lost in the kiss as he was Aragorn does not realise until they break apart again that Faramir has shifted on him, has arched his back away from him as he moved to kneel, raising himself up on his elbows and then his arms, the last touch between them the feather-softness of a lower lip. He is looking down at his king, and Aragorn can see the dawn light painting the planes of Faramir’s upper body before him, and he feels attraction uncoil madly in his stomach. Oh, but he is everything Aragorn deems desirable. He marvels at the light catching in the copper-dust of Faramir's beard and at the way he doesn't shy this time from royal fingertips that meander through the path of hair leading southwards from his navel. He meets Faramir's devoted gaze and finds his grin mirrored before their mouths meet again.

If this is a burst of confidence, Aragorn thinks, let it be sustained.


End file.
